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December is a priest’s last enemy. It is his downfall and damnation. Yet, he treats it like an old friend who is coming home.
December looks a bit like this: Aldo is busy, Thomas is busy, Vincent is busy.
The day only has twenty-four hours. Innocent has to wake accordingly early. He prays, then plans, then writes, writes, writes. Homily after homily after one benison after the other. One moment he holds a pen, the other he greets the people.
December looks like many, many faces strewn across piazza San Pietro.
Every minute is scheduled, every second planned into minute detail. His daily tasks spring violently from holding mass to discussing sales. He sees line charts and bar charts and pie charts, blobs of colour splattered across each page. He has meeting after meeting after meeting where he learns about every method to possibly visualise a statistic and all he can say about it is: “What was that about, anyways?”
Innocent crawls into bed inhumanely exhausted. More often than not, while he slumbers under his duvet, the lights in the nun’s rooms are still illuminated. He keeps dreaming about dying and ascending into heaven. Apparently, his subconsciousness characterises paradise in the form of a little black blowfly, who rests gently on top of a TV screen, and who does not care a bit about the term “Powerpoint”. He wakes with a smile, thinking about those paradisiac conditions.
Between the daily disorder, he has little time to play Vincent.
December looks a bit like this: The pope is busy, the Curia is busy, everyone else is busy.
He sees Ray an exact amount of six times over the course of the month. Each time, the man scurries breathlessly from one place to the other. Innocent tries to catch him, invites him over for tea twice, but even the mere thought of rest seems to unsettle him deeply. He uses a quiet moment to sick Mandorff on him.
This happens in marked contrast to Janusz, who keeps whistling Christmas songs under his breath. He hums I'll Be Home for Christmas first, later Happy Xmas and then Stop the Cavalry maybe too, if Innocent hears correctly. He would ask Janusz, if the man would talk about literally anything else other than that he personally picked the Christmas tree this year and helped deliver it. If he were anyone else, Innocent would frown upon his pride. Instead, he smiles and listens, knowing the past year hadn’t treated Janusz any kinder than it had treated him.
On Saint Nicholas’ Day, a battered postcard showing a pinup girl in festive attire arrives from Venice. It is addressed to Aldo and features the words “Happy Christmas” as well as a wish for a “speedy reunion”. For once, the Curia ist too busy to gossip. Still, the thought of Tedesco requesting a risqué Christmas card buoys him up for the entire day.
Christmas itself proceeds flawlessly. Everything works as it should, everyone stands to the right places at the right times. Innocent doesn’t drop a syllable. Not one flower wilts away. As the sermon ends and the people stream out, he sees Sister Agnes visibly deflate. It’s a hell of a day. It’s overwhelmingly stunning.
By noon of the twenty-sixth, Vincent is ready to drop dead into his bed. Yet, he still wakes from his impromptu nap at the incessant knocking on his door. It’s Thomas. Of course it is.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammers to Vincent’s bleary face, “I just thought um… Because Alain invited us last month…”
Shit. He’s right. Alain did. Vincent runs one hand through his tousled hair and gestures Thomas in with the other. He is mindful to close the door quickly; Not everybody needs to see the mess he had accumulated in his room.
“I just bought a card,” Thomas goes on, leaning on his kitchen counter, “Do you want a coffee?” Vincent hesitates.
He likes that image. He likes Thomas casually draping himself over the furniture. He likes that they basically share a schedule book. He likes that Thomas knows exactly where Vincent keeps the cheap coffee paper filters. He likes knowing that Thomas visits him in his slippers.
“I already wrote two words onto it, maybe you can just sign it,” he goes on, “Everything alright?”
Alright is not the word Vincent would use. Perfect, maybe. Immaculate, more like.
“Yes, I’m alright,” he says instead, “Thank you, Thomas. That’s very kind. You know,” he muses, looking at his watch, “I had this idea anyways…”
Which is how Thomas and Vincent find themselves hurrying through downtown Rome in the middle of the night. Thomas clutches a gift-wrapped bag of freshly baked cookies to his chest, while Vincent nearly slips on the wet asphalt. Christmas lights drift past them in a blur.
Electric candle arches peek out behind lace curtains. Neon holiday lights create a blinking symphony on a balcony. Porcelain collectables and red-green window stickers greet them from above.
It’s like in a picture-book. Or maybe a dream. The type where you take off and start flying over the rooftops.
The two catch their breaths in the shadow of Santa Barbara. Her ancient figure towers over them. Vincent meets her approving stare.
He lifts his knuckles to knock, but Thomas stops him with his fingers clasped tightly around his wrist.
“What’s wrong?”
Thomas sets his jaw. He dares a brief look backwards, then wraps his other hand around Vincent’s hip, draws him near and kisses him.
Really kisses him. The way one might have dreamt about being kissed. On the mouth, ardently.
Pretty good for a priest, is Vincent’s last thought before all of his brain cells melt away.
They part with heavy pants and soft moans on each other’s lips.
“Merry Christmas, Vincent,” he whispers, “That’s all I had to say.”
Thomas turns to knock on the door himself, but his quick fingers stop him.
“Wait! Let me argue with you about it,” Vincent demands and kisses Thomas again.